A master to his action-hero trainee says, "Your movements are sloppy. You lack awareness of your body when you fight. Your hands move and yet you do not hold them in your mind's eye. Come. We will remedy this."
And then the master paints his trainee's fingernails and orders the trainee to complete a series of complicated tasks without smudging the nail polish.
Trainee grumbles that this is stupid when the first set of tasks is just cleaning the dojo. Within two minutes he reaches for the dustpan and knocks the edge of his pinky nail against it in a way he's never noticed before. He's staring at the baby blue smudge and suddenly he understands things differently.
There's a montage of days passing as he fetches water, chops wood, hoes crops, washes clothes. His nails are a different color during each cut. He's sprinting up the mountain with a fresh wet pedicure and the master is nodding in approval. The master's nails are flawless tech art.
He's reached his final assessment and it's a sparing match against his master. The air smells of acetone. His and the master's nails are all freshly painted. He must land a blow on the master with his mani and pedi fully intact.
Suns and moons pass. Streak in the ring finger. Smudge on the pinky. A full-handed block at the cost of three nails of paint. A hit on his master, and he hoots in delight until the master points out the unguarded toe whose polish is now streaked across the master's robe.
Days pass in frustration and exhaustion. By day 40, he has every digit of his acutely in his mind's eye. He senses the master's attack, ducks, dodges, all fingers all toes all himself, aware, and he strikes with his wooden sword.
It connects with the master. The master pauses. The trainee raises his left hand into view--5 digits of flawless sunflower yellow. His left foot. His right foot. And finally his right hand, raised in triumph.
The master smiles. "You have passed. I have just one more technique to teach you."
The technique is how to draw little flowers into the nail art. So really this one is optional.
These posts contain 146 horses (49.1% of the post)
đ @phantomrose96
A master to his action-hero trainee says, "Your movements are sloppy. You lack awareness of your body when you fight. Your hands move and yet you do not hold them in your mind's eye. Come. We will remedy this."
And then the master paints his trainee's fingernails and orders the trainee to complete a series of complicated tasks without smudging the nail polish.
đ @phantomrose96
Trainee grumbles that this is stupid when the first set of tasks is just cleaning the dojo. Within two minutes he reaches for the dustpan and knocks the edge of his pinky nail against it in a way he's never noticed before. He's staring at the baby blue smudge and suddenly he understands things differently.
đ @phantomrose96
There's a montage of days passing as he fetches water, chops wood, hoes crops, washes clothes. His nails are a different color during each cut. He's sprinting up the mountain with a fresh wet pedicure and the master is nodding in approval. The master's nails are flawless tech art.
đ @phantomrose96
He's reached his final assessment and it's a sparing match against his master. The air smells of acetone. His and the master's nails are all freshly painted. He must land a blow on the master with his mani and pedi fully intact.
Suns and moons pass. Streak in the ring finger. Smudge on the pinky. A full-handed block at the cost of three nails of paint. A hit on his master, and he hoots in delight until the master points out the unguarded toe whose polish is now streaked across the master's robe.
Days pass in frustration and exhaustion. By day 40, he has every digit of his acutely in his mind's eye. He senses the master's attack, ducks, dodges, all fingers all toes all himself, aware, and he strikes with his wooden sword.
It connects with the master. The master pauses. The trainee raises his left hand into view--5 digits of flawless sunflower yellow. His left foot. His right foot. And finally his right hand, raised in triumph.
The master smiles. "You have passed. I have just one more technique to teach you."
The technique is how to draw little flowers into the nail art. So really this one is optional.
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a liushen trope that is painfully hard to find is bai zhan peak lord liu qingge + qing jing peak lord shen jiu + qing jing disciple shen yuan.
imagine shen yuan being shen jiu's beloved head disciple. the one and only man that he does not hate. whenever shen yuan is off the peak he's moody and punishes people for the smallest things. that's his little meow meow, and just looking at shen yuans sweet face is enough to fight off a qi deviation.
when shen yuan goes into seclusion shen jiu is throwing up, threatening to kill people, crying at brothels, going insane. when shen yuan leaves the cultivation caves shen jiu is ECSTATIC and smiles for the first time in months. and that smile slowly freezes in place because he must be hallucinating right? because there's no way he's seeing his sweet beloved disciple after so long and he has that brute liu qingge hanging off his shoulder... right?
shen jiu's eye twitching as shen yuan explains to mu qingfang that he saved liu qingge from having a qi deviation. first of all WHY save him, second of all, why save HIM? his worse enemy ??? the bane of every peak lord meeting?? shen jiu HATES liu qingge
at least hes happy to have shen yuan back. but unfortunately he's not the only one, because a week later he opens the bamboo house to see liu qingge standing outside. and when shen jiu barks "what do you want!?" that bastard has the audacity to say "is shen yuan here" and then blush.
shen yuan hears screeching and then has to race outside to stop shen jiu actually trying to fucking murder another peak lord
ventrue whump where theyâre forced to feed on rats send ask
I went absolutely wild over this and made it really sad and disgusting. Thank you for giving me good emetophobia exposure lmaoooo | Image Sources: One | Two
Summary: After the Primogen seize control of LA, their Ventrue representative tortures LaCroix for disgracing the clan. He is force-fed poison in the form of rats. But an unexpected friend is on the way to help...
TW: vomiting, fever, starvation, forced to live in dirty conditions
It wasnât enough to depose Sebastian LaCroix.
It wasnât enough to see him executed through the proper channels, on his knees and begging for his life until the very last.
No, the Ventrue Primogen took Sebastianâs offenses a little more personally, as a fellow clan member. And of course, Strauss obliged in letting him handle LaCroix himself.
LaCroix was dragged into a dungeon in the sewers, just before dawn on the night the scarcophagus was taken from him. The night he lost everything. It was a bit of a blur after that, probably because he was trying to block out the memories of how heâd pleaded and fought, of trying to stand and being kicked down again, and again, and again... But he did remember a great deal of talk about how he had âdisgraced us allâ and how every shred of his own dignitas would be stripped from him in turn. It was restrained enough, in its way. No prolonged torture. Just the cell door closing above him with a rattle of keys. There was no reason the execution had to be anytime soon, the Primogen had informed him. He had plenty of time to rot down here.
At first, there was time to rage, to cry, to plot revenge. But after a few weeks, desperation took hold in earnest. He was in so much pain he could hardly think. His veins ached from the inside out with growing hunger.
But it always could (and would) be worse.
One day, there were clicking boots down the corridor. Idle, lighthearted, accompanied by joyful humming.
And there was a faint squeaking. No. He couldnât be bringingâŠ
A rat. An enormous, filthy, foul-smelling rat appeared around the corner, clutched in one gloved hand. Sebastianâs captor appeared next, grinning wickedly. They stared at each other for a long moment before he swallowed and forced himself to speak. âWhat isâŠyou donât meanâŠâ
âOh yes. Dinner is served.â He held the deplorable thing through the bars, wriggling and squeaking, and didnât move a muscle. Sebastian just recoiled from it.
âTwenty-three days youâve left me down here, and the first word out of your mouth is an unamusing joke. Lovely. Now bring me something thatâs not poison.â The thought of being expected to eat that thing was already making him nauseous.
The Primogen just kept up with that maddeningly smug expression. âTraitorous rats get what they deserve. You are what you eat, after all.â He dropped the rat onto the dusty cell floor, where it scrambled away through the bars, seizing the freedom that Sebastian was denied. âNot hungry? Pity. Youâll look so gaunt at your execution.â He began to turn away.
âCome back at once!â LaCroix shouted after him, his voice rising in volume to follow the man down the corridor. âYou want to talk to me about disgracing us? This is completely unbecoming! To play with a former Prince this way, like itâs some idle game to you! Torturing a political prisoner without due process! Your own sadism has run away with you! Can you possibly understand what I've done for this city? This is the behavior of the Sabbat! A SABBAT! Do you hear me!?â There was no answer. Sebastian let out a wordless noise of frustration, somewhere between a grunt and a scream. He sunk to the floor, and was mortified to find himself wishing heâd made a grab for that rat before it could skitter away.
The worst part was that the Primogen had been right. He would look gaunt at his execution. Absolutely ravaged, in fact. His beautiful suit was absolutely destroyed â coated in dirt and torn from being thrown against the rocky ground. His hair hadnât been combed in weeks. And he could feel the cracks in his bloodless lips, could feel his veins collapsing on themselves. He was so thirsty, so hungry⊠heâd already gone days without a proper meal before everything unraveled. Heâd been too preoccupied, pacing all day and night with nervous energy, sensing the oncoming storm but powerless to prevent it. And now, the hunger was so intense it deepened the cold in his bones and resonated against chilled, damp draft from some vent system up above. The former Prince clutched at his own arms and shivered. Heâd never felt more like a corpse.
The next feeding time, just twenty-four hours later, wore out his patience. At the presence of a heartbeat, any heartbeat, his instincts took over and he snatched the rat right out of the Primogenâs hand, sinking into it like a drumstick and gnawing furiously.
The taste was absolutely rank. It shocked him so much that he remembered himself and managed to drop it, stumbling backward away from its hideous scent and setting his jaw tight in an effort not to give this asshole the satisfaction of seeing him vomit. But it seemed he didnât want to leave until heâd seen a show. He laughed uproariously and bent down to stare at LaCroix where heâd doubled over on the floor. âDear me, is it not edible to you? Poor thing. Unfortunately, you no longer deserve food.â
Sebastian shuddered but held his ground. Breathe. Breathe. Donât be sick. Think of nice things. His warm bed up in the penthouse. A fresh Marlboro just before sunrise. The Primogenâs head on a pike.
The Primogen tsked in annoyance and finally walked away. Sebastian exhaled in relief but had to hold his breath again immediately to keep from retching.
If the blood did him any good, he couldnât tell. The nausea eventually faded, but his stomach hurt terribly, and his body broke out in fever. He spent the night pulling his coat closer around himself and cursing the mistake. If anything, he seemed to be worse off.
The second time, he couldnât keep it down. Again, his body acted without permission, overtaken with frenzy at the sight of food, and seized the rat at once. But, further weakened this time, he vomited immediately, clinging to the bars for support. Tears of effort and humiliation coated his face. He couldnât look at the Primogen and kept gazing into the far corner until the bastard was done gloating and left.
It was difficult to say how many times this happened. The Primogen must have decided this was an enjoyable game, because he played it nightly. It was always the same. Heâd hold out the rat, Sebastian would take it, and heâd suffer the consequences, whether or not he kept the blood down. He could feel the poison working against his body. He no longer paced around the cell, merely huddled in a corner, too weak to move. The poison of the Primogenâs words worked on him too. He had disgraced the Ventrue name, hadnât he? He had failed. He deserved this, much as he may curse the man for giving him exactly what he deserved. If heâd only fought harder, gotten to the sarcophagus faster⊠he tried to push these thoughts away over and over, but they always came back. He couldnât last long this way â soon enough, torpor would take hold. It would probably be a mercy.
Sebastian had come to expect sickness whenever footsteps descended the stairs. So, when he heard a slightly different gait one night, it took a moment to register.
Once the familiar wave of dread wore off, he realized these sounded like heavy combat boots. âWhoâs there?â Instantly wary, he struggled to his feet but just swooned back against the wall again, trembling from the effort. He glanced around the cell, realizing what an absolute mess it was, the dirt floor covered in rejected blood. His clothes were no better. Damn it all. They were probably coming to take him to his final death, and in this state tooâŠ
It was, in fact, the only possible visitor worse than that. A white T-shirt and jeans and an ugly denim button down hanging open. Grizzly muscle and a shit haircut and cheekbones too chiseled for marble. Nines Rodriguez.
He took a long look at LaCroix and whistled. âJesusâŠFuckinâ Camarilla. What did they do to you?â
Sebastian answered his pity with a glare. âI ca â â his voice rasped almost enough to make him inaudible and he had to try again. If there had been any blood left in his body, he would have blushed furiously. Why couldnât Nines be trying to behead him instead of staring directly at the red stains on his collar? ââŠI canât imagine what concern of yours that might be. WhatâŠhow can you be here of all places? Have they already sunk so low as to ally with the Anarchs?â
Thankfully, Nines demanded no further information. âGettinâ weapons.â He pulled out the ring of keys the Primogen had carried. Sebastian noticed it was dripping with blood. âYouâre âweapons.ââ
âPardon me?â
âYou want to put Strauss through the Venture company paper shredder for whatever happened here? The rest of âem too? Well, letâs do it. Common enemies and all that. Donât worry, Iâll still kill you after.â The door swung open. Open. The door was open. But Sebastian couldnât move. He opened and closed his mouth, wondering how precisely to convey to Nines that he couldnât walk at present without dispelling the illusion of his own usefulness.
Nines swore again. âThey really did a number on you.â
Sebastian bristled. There was absolutely no need to dwell on that. âWhat, do you think youâd look any better if you were in my place?â
âNo, I just â look, shut it for a second, Iâm just trying to think what to do. Wish Iâd brought blood bags, but theyâre back at the base. I didnât think it would be this bad, butâŠâ he shook his head, resigning himself to something. âListen, this is about to be a bad time for both of us.â He bent over LaCroix, who tensed away from him. With unfathomable alarm, he realized he was about to be scooped off the ground.
âDonât!â he hissed, âYou canât! Iâm â â disgusting. Revolting. Unworthy even to be touched by an Anarch. And the Anarch was equally disgusting by his very nature. Which of them, he wondered, would really sully the other more?
âPipe down before you get us caught.â Nines did hesitate though, long enough to take off his jacket. He wiped the blood and sweat and dirty tear tracks from LaCroixâs face despite yelps of protest, and then wrapped it backwards around Sebastianâs chest like a blanket. The denim wasnât the softest, but it was intoxicating, suffused with Nines deep into the fabricâŠwith the scent of his bloodâŠblood that wasnât rat blood, and smelled so rough and musky andâŠ
âHey donât pass out on me, okay? Prissy fuckinâ Prince⊠I can't believe they managed to rough you up even worse than I would've. That's truly creativity. Come on, one, two, threeâŠâ And, lifted in the arms of the Anarch leader, LaCroixâs new life began.
nothing more heartbreaking than getting obsessed with a ship you think is popular just to look at ao3 and it has less than 50 fics.... where is my toxic vamp yaoi
someone more eloquent than me should talk about the chances of jiang cheng's body rejecting wei wuxian's core, leaving them both coreless, like would that make wei wuxian come out with the truth, would he come up with some crazy lie, would jiang cheng try to fight 'baoshan sanren' herself, would both of them become demonic cultivators, would jiang cheng try to find a way to still wield zidian, how would that impact the rest of the story, would this fix things or make them worse, so many possibilities....
Why does fandom so often expect female characters to be perfectly written in order to be liked or popular? Male charactersâand really, most popular charactersâalso have messy, inconsistent, or flawed in their writing, yet people still embrace them, reinterpret them, and build on whatâs there to make them more compelling. But when it comes to women, fandom tends to hold them to an impossible standard, where any writing flaw becomes a reason to dismiss the character entirely. The truth is, thereâs nothing wrong with loving a character whose writing has mistakes; fandom does this with male characters all the time. So why canât we treat female characters the same way, and allow ourselves to love them even when the text doesnât do them justice?
THIS POST IS ABOUT HOW A MALE CHARACTER CAN HAVE BAD WRITING AND BE LOVED. AND HOW WOMEN OFTEN DO NOT GET THAT. it is not. about. how a type. of female character. is boring.
if there was any justice at all in the world âevery helen has her troyâ would be an idiom (âevery beautiful woman leaves a disaster in her wakeâ) and misogynistic renaissance authors would use it to describe hot women they didnât like but, of course, inadvertently making her sound insanely awesome in the process. and then in modern times instead of talking about things being their hill to die on women could say âthis is my troy to burnâ and people on tumblr would be kind of horny about the whole thing and it would get incorporated into the whole âcan yuo put that out on meâ genre of posts. anyway just a glimpse into my beautiful mind tonight
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